A Fishy Case
by Miss Aldridge
Summary: Bludhaven, a filthy city. A visiting detective. A resident vigilante. And something strange going on...


A Fishy Case

By Miss Aldridge

Disclaimer: Nightwing and associated characters and locations are owned by DC comics, not me. I'm not the one making the money out of long, involved crossovers with a crisis in infinite parts.

Summary: Bludhaven, a filthy city. A visiting detective. A resident vigilante. And something strange going on...

Author's Notes: Don't want to say too much, as it would spoil the story. I'm sure it's not an entirely original idea, but can't remember if or where I read it before. Suffice to say I'm trying something a little different to my usual. I've done my best at dropping clues in where I can as to what's happening. Enjoy!

VVVVVVVVVV

I'll start late at night in the troubled city of Bludhaven. The city lay like a lady, restless and fitful in her sleep, tossing and turning, disturbed. Poor lady, she'll never fully rest, not until Bludhaven is finally silent, her last trump sounded and finished. The streets are her arteries and veins, constantly streaming her choking and filthy lifeblood. The lights are all the sly come-on twinkle of her eyes, drawing the observer, the voyeur in to the architecture of her body. Her head lies pillowed on the surrounding country, her arms encompass everything, her legs spread to extend along the docks. One hell of a lady; Gotham's younger, sluttier sister. Not quite fresh-faced but hiding it well until you look closely, unlike that other raddled old bag.

And even knowing her tendencies, her lies and her crocodile tears, there're still some men who'll fight to defend her honour. And not through any blind-eyed delusion to her beauty. One of these is only known by his pseudonym. A mystery man, with his motivations just as obscure. Handsome, dashing, debonair -well, you just think back to all those adventure tales you read as a kid. The hero was always described in such glowing terms so you couldn't help but be on their side. Then you got older and started to wonder whether the likes of Robin Hood wasn't just a robbin' hoodlum. I know I did. With these guys, the image is everything. The shine on the armour blinds you to what's underneath. History would have been different if King John had had a good agent.

So Bludhaven's knight errant is the bold Nightwing. There's so damn many stories that there's no real starting point. So damn many, but so little information. By all accounts the guy can fly, make himself invisible, move faster than any man alive and not mess his hair in the process. Now that had to take some doing, because there's only one Superman and Bludhaven sure as hell ain't Metropolis.

I came to this concrete and steel dumpsite on behalf of a client. Classy dame, came into my office in her pearls and chatted at me about a missing person. Looked like she could pay enough to keep me interested, and seemed a little familiar too. I reckoned she must have been a right looker in her day. And I'm always a bit of a sucker for a lovely lady, no matter her age. I come over all courteous. So that was that and I was off to Bludhaven. Wasn't much to go on for the case, just the name -Harry Coe- and the company he had gone to investigate. Real Fish Stocks.

As with most cases, I started on the premise that if I asked around enough, some sort of answer would start to form. Just like those detective novels the old birds write. So I asked around, and got zilch. No one had even heard of Harry Coe, and no one knew anything about Real Fish Stocks. Of course, I wasn't just asking about those two things. Every good PI knows that knowing the lay of the land is essential. And that's when I hear about this Nightwing guy.

Now, costumed vigilantes aren't common round my way, and I'd never even heard of this one. Something to do with the Batman was the general theme I got, though what exactly was another matter. I heard all kinds of ideas, from him being his son or his brother to being some sort of trainee or, worse, some intimate friend, if you get my drift (well, anyone prepared to dress up like that's got to have something funny going on in the head). But the word was also that this Nightwing was some sort of hot-shot detective, so I guess I shouldn't have been surprised when he caught up with me my fifth night in town.

I was down on the docks, figuring that Real Fish Stocks was somthing to do with fish. An obvious idea, I grant you, too obvious to be true, but I always check out anything remotely useful. I kind of felt someone behind me and turned around. And there was this young man in the most clinging outfit I'd ever seen -let alone seen worn with such lack of self-conciousness- perched on top of a shipping crate. Looking down on me, he was, from above. But I recognise a power trick when I see one, and I didn't let on I was startled or anything. I just reached into my pocket, calm as you like, and lit a cigarette.

"I've been hearing about you," he says, voice low and quiet. A put-on, I could tell.

"Have you?" I asked, still all cool-like. I blow out a stream of smoke.

"I'm curious," he continues, not even shifting within his shadow. "You seem to be causing a little agitation within Desmond's operation."

Now, Roland Desmond is the other big thing about Bludhaven. He's the biggest crime boss in the area, and that goes for weight as well as influence. It's said he can kill people by twisting their heads right around in his bare hands. Goes by the name of Blockbuster at times, though I never was quite able to glean the information why. He owns Bludhaven, her body and her soul. So it wasn't much of a surprise to hear that I was rattling the bars a little. It did make me think a little of my safety though. Guys like Desmond rub people out like a grade-schooler rubs out mistakes in math homework.

"Am I really?" I reply to the vigilante with another question..

"From what I hear. You need to be careful. He's dangerous."

He stretches, and rubs the back of his neck. And curiously, this gesture made me want to trust him a little more. The cat-like stillness he had been displaying had been unnatural, but as he moved, he looked more human. And besides, word on the street had been that he was a good guy. Or at least, not one of the bad guys.

"I'm looking for someone," I tell him.

"I know." He smiles. "Why?"

"I'm a PI, out of New York. I'm on a case. Name's Sam Salt."

"Nightwing," he returns with a nod of his head.

"I know." Circle joined. A moment shared. "Do you know anything about my case?"

He shifts one of his legs, which is crouched under him. "You're looking for a man named Harry Coe, and there's some link with Real Fish Stocks. And that's all you know."

"And you know all that because you've been asking the people I've been speaking to," I tell him.

There's a twitch in his mouth where he wants to smile. "Correct. And I know one thing that you don't, though I imagine you're suspecting it by now. Real Fish Stocks was a part of what is now Roland Desmond's holdings. Although, and this is important, it hasn't existed for a long time. It used to be owned by a mob boss called Frankie Rotten, and he's long dead."

Damn, I wish had the access to this sort of information that this guy clearly has. Probably some secret superhero network where they have the dirt on everybody and everything. Not a comfortable thought if you've anything to hide.

I nod to him in thanks. "And do you know anything about my man?"

"Not yet. I have someone working on it." He smiles again, and it's a proper smile, like he's happy about something. And it's nothing to do with me. "I should know by tomorrow. If you want to meet up, I'll be happy to share."

I consider this. It was a little unorthodox for me I know, but then my sources of information have always been odd people. "Agreed. Same place?"

"Suits me. Half ten good enough for you?"

I nod. I knew he meant nighttime rather than morning, though neither of us said it. He reached down a hand and I shook it. Then he vanished off and I was left on the dock with a cigarette stub that was nearly burning my fingers. I threw it into the river and headed off myself.

I don't know where the day went. I've never been a day person myself, not waking much before lunch, occasionally just in time for an often liquid breakfast, and then fidgeting with papers on my desk most of the afternoon. When it gets dark, that's when I start work properly. Or, if there's no work, I hit the bar. So it was no surprise to me that the next evening came quicker than I thought it might have.

Anyway, it grew dark then it got light as the neon came on. There must have been enough girls -and boys- avaliable to satisfy an entire Naval fleet. And the city wasn't half proud about it, at least the half I was in. Vice squad obviously looked the other way round these parts. I pulled on my hat and coat, checked my shoulder holster and went out. The hotel receptionist -blonde, legs up to her armpits, that sort- didn't even look up. The streets were getting real busy by the time it came for me to keep my appointment. I could just imagine my old secretary Ada, in the days when I could afford a secretary, writing it in my diary. 10.30: appointment with mysterious roof-crawling vigilante. Reminder: wear clean socks at least every two days. She was a blessing, Ada was, and it broke my heart to have to let her go. I backslid a bit after that, but everything turned around when I met Helen. She was my angel.

The dock was empty when I got there, or so I thought. I had just comfortable leaning against a wall, lit my cigarette, when a shadow opposite me moved and it was him. I jumped. Hell, anyone would have. He was giving me an odd sort of stare from behind the white eyes of that mask, looking me all over, frowning slightly.

"Did you find anything?" I asked.

His eyes jumped to my face in a flicker. "Yes," he said slowly. "Something, at any rate. Your Harry Coe came from New York, quite a long time ago now. Some sort of investigation. Your client, Ms Brass, was his fiancee. According to records, he vanished not long after arriving here. His hotel room was only paid for a week, and after that they chucked his stuff in storage. After several years, the place changed hands and it was all thrown out. No chance of finding it now, even supposing we knew what we were looking for." His eyes were on me the whole time, just staring. It was kind of unnerving. "He was staying in the Regent, just off the Strip. It's called Central Hotel now."

"That's where I'm staying," I told him casually, knocking ash off my cigarette. "An absolute hole."

"So are most of them round there. That area's notorious, and has been for years."

"Anything else on Real Fish Stocks? That looks to be the most useful lead."

He grinned a little grin. "I've found out where it was and what it's being used for now." He pointed down the dock. "That building there, with the boarded-over windows. Currently known as Williams' Frozen Fish Merchants, officially they supply fish to the school catering industry. It would seem, however, that it's a cover for smuggling something far more profitable into the city." His face took on that steely look of the morally angered. "I suspect drugs."

"Do you think that's what Harry Coe was investigating? The same racket?" I asked.

"Could be." He shrugged. "That's why we should go and have a look."

I nodded. As fun as it was to stand there jawing with a guy wearing clothes that'd make an exhibitionist blush, I wanted to get moving. I was feeling oddly cold, had been for a few days now. And as much as I appreciated the information gathering stage of the case, I always preferred it when I got to go and poke my nose in someplace. Helen always warns me that if I stick it in too many places I'll end up with it cut off. She always worries about me taking too many risks, though she's no shrinking violet herself. My little bold as brass Helen.

We scale a netting fence, or rather I climb while he vaults over it, barbed wire and all, and lands silently on the other side. By the time I'm down he's already gassed the one guard dog without it even noticing him. It occurs to me that he's done this many times before. He gives me another of those long stares before pulling at a loose corner on a board over a window. It comes away pretty easily. The room inside is dark. We climb in.

I was very aware that I was just following him, letting him lead the way, and that he could have been guiding me docilely into a trap. It wouldn't have been the first time I'd been caught out like that, but I could feel the weight under my jacket and kept my hand near it. I didn't know if he could deflect bullets, but the back of his head looked vulnerable enough to me.

"I had a look round earlier," he whispers, turning back to look at me. "They're only using the other side of the building. The rest of it hasn't been touched for a long time -since Harry Coe was here, in fact."

"What are we expecting to find?" I ask. "Some evidence that's been here undisturbed since then?"

"Maybe..."

He leaves the room, out into the corridor and into the next room. I follow. It seems like the most sensible thing to do. And something compels me to follow him, or at least go the same way he's going. He's shining a torch into corners, sending roaches and other bugs scuttling off. I'm impressed he doesn't flinch at the size of some of them. I'm getting shivers just seeing them, like I can feel them crawling inside my skull or something.

"Did you know Harry Coe?" he asks. "He was a PI in New York too."

He isn't looking at me. I return the favour by staring at the wall. There's an unpleasant dark stain on it, spreading out from the centre, under the peeling paintwork.

"The name's familiar," I admit, "but I can't picture him. There's a fair few of us doing PI work in the Big Apple, you know."

"Less than you think now," he says. "No need. The police are much better. What sort of cases do you take on now?"

An odd statement and an odd question, I thought. He's staring at the stain now with me.

"People who want evidence on their spouses for divorce proceedings, murders, missing items..."

"Broads in trouble?" he asks then waves a hand. "Ignore that, sorry. Too many detective novels. Thing is," he pauses, "I found something else out about Harry Coe. He used an alias when he was out of town working a case that would be dangerous."

He isn't looking at me. "That alias was Sam Salt."

The significance doesn't hit me then. Nightwing walks past me and through the door. I follow again, blindly now, not thinking about anything in particular. I could just see her in my head, kissing me, telling me to be careful, all that smooth skin of hers. Those long legs in those stockings, the coat belted at the waist, the smile on her red lips.

We stop at the door of the next room. He doesn't go in, and his body is blocking me from doing so.

"I spoke to your "client"," he continues. "She said she had gone into your office -your former office- a week ago. She misses you, you see. And that office is just how you left it, she's kept it like that, just in hopes you might walk in the door. She said it's where you always spent most of your time, and she goes in there usually once a week because it feels like you. She's done it for years, decades even. And last week, she talked to you, and in her head at least she was getting the answers."

He turns and finally looks at me. "Her name is Helen Brass. She was your -Harry Coe's- fiancee. She's gotten old still wondering what happened to you, Harry. She told me that she felt like a silly old woman for pretending to talk to you like that, but I think she sparked something off." He moves away from the door and lets me through, shining his torch on the wall, the wall that was so stained on the other side. "I'm sorry, Harry."

The wall had a fresh hole hacked in it, the plaster at its edges not having had time to lose its whiteness in places. The inside was dark, but the torchlight showed me dust, mouldering fabric and bones. And then I knew -they were my bones. My old suit, the match for the one I was wearing, with the trenchcoat and fedora I also sported. And my bones, dark and mottled with age and damp. I stare into the eyesockets of my own skull, which has to be a pretty unique experience.

Nightwing's standing there next to me, and I can feel his presence even as he seems ever so distant, so warm and alive.

"I gave the police a tip-off," he begins, but stops abruptly as two men burst in through the door. And I know that we haven't been paying enough attention to our surroundings and while I suppose they can't hurt me, they can hurt him.

The two thugs both have guns and no compunction in firing them. Bullets spit like swearwords across the room. Nightwing drops his torch as he dives for the floor, heading towards the thugs. He moves too fast for them to shoot him immediately and springs to his feet before they've come to terms with his earlier move. Or rather, he gets his feet under him, but the floorboards, neglected and disused for nearly as long as my bones, splinter and his right foot crashes straight through, trapping him. Both thugs grin and take aim.

I was standing there by my remains, frozen in place. I felt insubstantial, like the ghost I'd been proven to be. That was me, lying in pieces behind a wall, already well on my way to going back to the dust from whence I had come. What right I had to be standing there looking at myself I didn't know. I look at the vigilante, who was trying to pull himself up. And then the damnedest thing happened. He looks at me and says,

"You've been real enough up 'til now."

And then I feel the weight inside my jacket and I pull it out, cocking it as I do. I was always one of the quickest draws back during police training, not that it helped me stick at the force. A bullet that looks as real as any left the solid barrel and hits one thug clean on the forehead. A ghost of a bullet, maybe, its reality probably in the pocket of that mouldy suit behind me, but he screams and falls. No blood, but certainly some effect. He's unconscious immediately. Before he even hits the ground Nightwing is up and knocking the second thug down. He grins at me.

"Still got it," I manage to tell him.

"You certainly have," he says and reaches out to shake my hand. He almost can't.

"I called the police," he goes on, "they'll shut this place down. The people responsible for your murder are most likely long dead, or on the way. But this place isn't going to be operating anymore, and your body'll go back to Helen for a proper funeral."

I smile. Everything seemed to be becoming misty. "In a way, it's like I've finally solved the Real Fish Stocks case," I say, "even if it is a long time later."

The last thing I see is his smile. "We always get them in the end. Always."

The End.


End file.
